


I Was an Invisible Teenage Boy Scout

by coyotesuspect



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Coming of Age, Friendship, Gen, High School
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 20:49:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coyotesuspect/pseuds/coyotesuspect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High school is hard for everyone. But it’s even harder in Night Vale, especially when you’re an invisible boy scout, your little sister’s been kidnapped by a hooded figure, and your best friend is the recently two-headed and suddenly popular star quarterback. </p><p>Slightly canon divergent in its treatment of Michael Sandero's second head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Was an Invisible Teenage Boy Scout

"Mike. Hey, Michael," hisses Franklin. He taps harder against Michael's window, and, after another few seconds, the window opens and Michael and his second head poke out, into the warm desert night air. 

"Who's there?" demands Michael's second head, teeth flashing brightly even in the gloom. 

"It's me," says Franklin, to Michael's first head, the _real_ Michael. "Lemme in."

Michael steps back, two sets of eyes wide and bewildered.

" _Frankie_?" asks Michael, the real Michael. 

Franklin grips onto the window ledge and pulls himself over it and into Michael's room, in one smooth motion that he's been doing three or four times a week ever since he and Michael were first graders taking modified Sumerian at Night Vale Elementary together. 

"I can't see you," says Michael, when Franklin lands neatly inside. "What the fuck?" 

"He's invisible, _obviously_ ," sneers Michael's second head. "It was on the radio, but I guess you don't actually ever _listen_ , do you?"

"Yeah, but I figured..." says Michael. He trails off, and looks back in the general direction of Franklin. Franklin leans back, his elbows on the windowsill.

"He figured I could probably turn it off," snaps Franklin to the second head, rankled. "Like any reasonable person would. But that's the next badge." 

"And when are you going to get that?" ask both Michaels – real Michael concerned, and second Michael disdainful. 

Franklin really fucking hates Michael Sandero's second head. 

"Dunno," says Franklin. 

“Huh,” says real Michael, and then because it’s not _that_ weird, asks, the same question he’s asked for the last ten years, “You wanna watch some TV?” 

“We have an ornithomancy test tomorrow!” protests the second head, and Michael ignores him, good friend that he is and turns the TV on without actually waiting for Franklin’s answer.

There’s not even anything that Franklin and Michael watch regularly. There’s only three channels in Night Vale, and two of those are controlled by World Government. Franklin likes a good government-created soap opera as much as the next person, but the flashing subliminal messages every twenty seconds give him a headache sometimes. 

Putting the TV on is more just a way to provide background noise and to drown out the sound of their conversation in case one of Michael’s siblings is trying to listen in. Michael’s siblings are weird like that, but Franklin charitably forgives them. He’d probably be searching for a leg up constantly, too, if his mom ranked him and his siblings for all the neighborhood to see. 

Lately, though, Michael and Franklin have actually been watching the TV more than they’ve talked. It’s just different, with Michael’s second head around now. And that happened around the same time Franklin’s little sister got taken. There’s been this sort of hole, all these things they want to talk about, but haven’t. 

But Michael pats the edge of his bed same as he ever has, and Franklin settles next to him, same as he ever has. So not everything’s changed, even if Franklin sometimes feels unsettled by all these new things they haven’t discussed, like the hole between them getting bigger.

They watch television until all three channels turn into the same flaming baby head, shrieking obscenities. Franklin knuckles Michael’s shoulder and goes home.

x

The next morning, after he clears the drunk tarantulas from the kitchen sink, he goes outside to check for tracks in the backyard. There’s a trail of delicate cloven prints that start at the back door, wind around the house, pass back and forth by his older brother Matt’s window a few times, and then turn into small bird tracks and disappear. 

Franklin figures it has something to do with the bloodstones Matt’s selling, and he hopes Matt’s all right. But it’s got nothing to do with him, which means no Boy Scout meeting that week. Scoutmaster Harlan always uses wolf tracks to signal when and where the next meeting will be.

Eduardo’s standing by the refrigerator when Franklin comes back inside. He jumps when Franklin slams the door shut behind, and Franklin grins.

“Who’s there?” demands Eduardo. Eduardo has slicked back hair and two small, purple horns jutting out from his temples. 

“S’just me, Eddy,” says Franklin cheerfully. “Didn’t you hear? I’m invisible now.” 

Eduardo eyes the space two-feet to Franklin’s right warily. “Didn’t realize you were still invisible. Where’s your mom?” 

“Carrie’s room,” says Franklin coolly. He shoves past Eduardo to get to the fridge, and Eduardo jumps again when Franklin touches him.

“ _Still_?” 

“Yeah, _still_ ,” snaps Franklin. There’s a plate of faintly glowing jello in the fridge. He doesn’t remember it being there last night, but other than glowing faintly, it seems pretty okay. He eats half of it and shoves the rest into some tupperware for lunch.

“She’s been in there a long time, is all,” says Eduardo, annoyed. “It’s been a month.” 

“Yeah, you let her kid get taken by a hooded figure,” says Franklin. “What do you expect?” 

Eduardo glowers at the jello Franklin is shoveling into his mouth. 

“I didn’t _let_ Carrie get taken, I –”

“Just stood there and did nothing?” 

Eduardo doesn’t respond, and Franklin finishes getting ready for school. He picks up his World Government issued grenade launcher and backpack at the front door.

“I liked Mom’s last boyfriend better,” he shoots back as he goes. “And you’d better be outta here before Matt gets home.” 

x

Being invisible doesn’t really matter for attendance in homeroom; Mrs. Snickett is blind as a bat, and, also like a bat, takes attendance via echolocation. It takes her awhile this morning; there’s a game tomorrow against Desert Bluffs (and sometimes it feels like they _only_ ever play Desert Bluffs), and the class is twitchy and chattery with anticipation. 

It also means Michael’s sitting in the back, both heads bent as he talks quietly with Night Vale High’s hunchbacked linebacker, Roxanne. 

Franklin sinks into his seat; last year, when Michael was terrible, no one on the team wanted to sit with him, even the day before games.

No one seems to care that Franklin’s invisible, so he gets through homeroom and all the classes till lunch without talking to anyone.

Michael makes up for it at lunch, at least, by sitting with Franklin in their normal place, at the table by the mangrove grove at the edge of campus. It’s been their spot since freshman year, and it’s a damn good spot, far enough away no one usually bothers them, but close enough that they can still watch all the lunch time drama unfold. Franklin likes that, being on the edge of things, and he considers their spot sacred. 

“Sorry about this morning,” says Michael when they sit down. “You know how everyone gets right before the big game.” 

“Yeah,” says Franklin, “don’t mention it.”

Michael looks vaguely anxious; his second head looks bored. And Franklin glowers, because he knows the second head would rather be elsewhere, and he’s beginning to suspect Michael might too. 

“How’d your ornithomancy exam go?”

“Okay. Good. I don’t know. Betty got attacked by a vulture during it, and I couldn’t figure out what that meant.”

“Huh. Betty Letts?” 

“Yeah.” Michael shifts in his seat. “Just, about this morning, I don’t want you to think –”

“Hey, Sandero,” says a familiar voice suddenly. “Frankie around?” 

“Yeah,” says Franklin, to the blank space where the voice emanated from. “That you, Barty?” 

“Oh, cool, you’re here,” says Barty. 

Michael’s real head looks a little annoyed. He and Frankie have never talked about it, but he gets the impression that Michael doesn’t like Barty very much. It’s just different between Frankie and Barty. Michael has been Franklin’s best friend since childhood, but he and Barty walked through the desert for weeks together with only their blood to drink. It's just a different kind of relationship. 

“Ooh, Michael,” coos Ellie Mayberry, the head cheerleader suddenly. She’s got one of her henchman with her, and it’s turning into a real fucking party. Franklin’s never seen this many people at their spot before. “You don’t have to sit by yourself!”

“I’m not by myself –” starts Michael, but Ellie talks over him, clearly speaking to the _second_ head. 

“Really,” insists Ellie to Michael’s second head. She pats his broad chest and smiles. Franklin scowls. “Me and the girls are eating out in the parking lot.” 

“He’s not alone,” snaps Franklin. He used to like Ellie well enough, but ever since she grew an admittedly impressive set of silver wings in the eighth grade, she’s been kind of insufferable.

Ellie starts. “Who said that?” 

“Me. Franklin,” snaps Franklin. “Me and Barty are here, thanks.” 

Ellie’s eyes narrow. “You freaks are _invisible_?”

“Hey –” starts real Michael, but his second head is louder. 

“Right? Like the Boy Scouts could get any weirder.” 

“Actually,” says Barty blandly, “we’ve already passed the rank of Weird Scout.” 

“Ew,” says Ellie. She tugs Michael to his feet. Real Michael looks reluctant, and a brief struggle plays between his and his second head – and Franklin’s not really sure if they can communicate telepathically; he’d ask Michael, but that would mean asking the second head as well. But finally, Michael gives the lunch table an apologetic look. 

“Sorry, Frankie,” he says. “I’ll catch up with you later, yeah?” 

“Sure,” mutters Franklin, scowling. He flips Ellie and Michael’s second head off, but it’s not that satisfying since they can’t see it. And it doesn’t feel very sportsmanlike either. He knows he’ll have to confess to it at the next troop meeting, and that means demerits and public castigation. 

Michael and his second head walk away with Ellie. 

“Sometimes I wish he’d never gotten popular,” Franklin mutters, slumping over his glowing jello. It’s developed teeth since the morning, but it’s still jello, so Franklin doesn’t really feel threatened by it. 

“Yeah, but that would mean he never got struck by the lightning bolt,” points out Barty reasonably. “So he’d still be dying.” 

“It could have just cured him,” says Franklin defensively. He definitely doesn’t want for Michael to still be sick. It would just be nice if he hadn’t also grown an asshole for a second head. 

x

Big Ricco doesn't care that Franklin's (probably temporarily) invisible and lets him keep his job as a waiter. Franklin thinks that’s very kind of him. A lot of employers wouldn't want their wait-staff to be invisible, and he's pretty sure it's not one of those things that's protected under state employment law. Like being a certain race or having tentacles. 

"Franklin!" says Cecil, the radio personality, when Franklin goes up to their table. "Congratulations on your achievement! I see you remain quite invisible."

Cecil grins broadly, and Franklin isn't sure if it's because of his own pun, or if he really is that pleased about Franklin's invisibility. Cecil has a lot of weird ideas about civic pride, and what constitutes things the populace should experience civic pride over.

Or maybe Cecil's just grinning like that because he's eating dinner with Carlos the scientist, who looks rather perturbed. But, in Franklin's experience, Carlos always looks like that. 

"Who are you talking to?" asks Carlos faintly.

Cecil gestures at Franklin.

"Our waiter! Franklin Wilson. He just got his invisibility badge for the Boy Scouts, as you can see. Or, well, _can't_ see, as the case may be." 

Franklin doesn't ask why Cecil can see him. It makes sense. Cecil is mostly experienced as a voice, so he probably mostly experiences people in ways other than seeing. And even when you're looking at Cecil, he has an odd way of fritzing slightly, as if he were covered in a constant, fine layer of static.

“Have you ever considered a career in broadcasting?” asks Cecil as Franklin refills their water glasses with goldfish. “We could sure use you a go-getter like you at Night Vale Community Radio!” 

“No, thank you,” says Franklin politely. His brother used to date a girl who interned for Cecil. They didn’t break up. She got turned into an eternally weeping stone statue at the corner of Division and Main while covering the Night Vale Triennial Mausoleum and Butter Sculpture Competition. 

His brother still brings the statue flowers sometimes.

Carlos is staring at him. Or, well, a point a few inches to Franklin. 

“You’re invisible?” he says.

“Yeah,” says Franklin. “You can’t see me, so obviously I’m invisible.” 

“I –” Carlos blinks a few times and then mutters, “And I thought nothing surprised me anymore.” 

He reaches forward and pokes Franklin in the shoulder. 

“Hey!” snaps Franklin, still irritable from Michael ditching him at lunch. “Watch it!”

“Sorry!” says Carlos, hastily pulling his hand to his chest. His eyes are still very wide. 

Franklin glowers at him. “Just tell me what you guys want to order, okay?” 

He takes their order – the toenail special; Carlos looks queasy – and wanders back towards the register where Eliza from third period HISTORY OF [CENSORED] snaps her gum and brazenly overcharges the customers. He’s in a pretty good mood; he’s expecting a pretty good tip from Carlos and Cecil after Carlos’s rude behavior. 

He sees a hooded figure come in as he’s getting off his shift. It’s not the hooded figure that took his little sister, he doesn’t think. That one smells faintly of licorice and this one doesn’t smell like anything, in fact, is distinctly noticeable by the fact you can’t smell anything within three feet of it. 

But seeing the hooded figure gives Franklin an idea. 

Maybe he’s invisible to hooded figures, too.

x 

He doesn’t go to Michael’s that night, and there are no ripples in his cauldron of bile when he gets home, which means Michael didn’t try to text him either. He feels vaguely pissed. It’s hard to concentrate on his homework, and normally he really likes Advanced Psychological Trauma.

The house feels empty, maybe even a little bit hungry. Matt’s never around, but the bloody nub of one of Eduardo’s horns in the microwave means he probably did stop by earlier in the day, that Eduardo won’t be coming around the house for a while, if at all. 

The only sound is the house shifting; it always walks back and forth a bit while it tries to sleep. Even his mother’s chanting and wailing has stopped. Outside, the wind is dead, the night silent. 

Franklin turns on his radio and listens to WZZZ until he falls asleep, soft chimes and random numbers tumbling through his brain. 

x

The next night, the Night Vale Scorpions beat Desert Bluffs  to , and Michael gets carried off the field. Franklin watches it all from the top of the stadium, but he’s not really sure why he came. It’s not like Michael can _see_ him there, supporting him, and they didn’t really speak all day. Franklin ate lunch with Barty by the tar pits. 

Everyone goes to Big Ricco’s afterwards to celebrate. Franklin goes too, but only because he knows it’ll be a big crowd, and they’ll need extra staff on hand. Michael’s busy being feted, and Franklin knows there’s no way he’ll really get the chance to talk with and congratulate him until later. 

Midway through the celebration, though, the licorice-smelling hooded figure comes in. The crowd visibly moves away from him, but there aren’t any children around, so no one seems too worried. 

But Franklin – Franklin freezes midway through bringing a pizza to a table of cheerleaders.

He’s still invisible. This is his chance. There’s never gonna be a better chance. 

One of the requirements for Eternal Scout is suicidal courage anyway.

He puts the pizza down, and waits for the hooded figure to leave. It doesn’t take long, with no children around, the hooded figure doesn’t seem too interested in sticking around.

He follows the hooded figure out.

The town is quiet, all the teenagers at Big Ricco’s celebrating, and everyone else either home in bed or still chasing the Desert Bluff fans out of town. Franklin doesn’t see anyone the entire time he follows the hooded figure, and the hooded figure gives no indication of knowing it’s being followed, even though Franklin feels like his heart is beating terribly loud, pumped on adrenaline and hope and fear.

They walk all the way to the Dog Park. 

Franklin freezes. He can’t go into the Dog Park. He can’t even go into the Dog Park. He’s going to get arrested. Even though he doesn’t know about the Dog Park. Where is he? He doesn’t even remember what he’s doing. 

Suddenly, the hooded figure turns and looks right at him. Or at least it would be, if its eyes were where they are on a normal human. But Franklin’s got no idea where its eyes are. All he can see is a void blacker and deeper than the midnight sky. Cold and terrible panic grips him. The hooded figure reaches out, hand a patch of nothingness torn into the world. Franklin can hear someone screaming, but it’s not him because he’s too busy begging, babbling uncontrollably – please and no and I’m sorry and don’t. 

It’s a poor show, for a Boy Scout. 

The hooded figure touches his forehead with a jolt like a static shock. Fire blooms in Franklin’s head. 

He collapses. 

_Seven mute children, exactly half of them boys and half of them girls, encircle him and the hooded figure. Each one is holding a balloon, each a different color, and none of them colors Franklin can name. The hooded figure starts to hiss like a cat and its hands dig into Franklin’s flesh. He tries to remember his survival training; he’s got an Eldritch Horror Self-Defense badge, for Council’s sake. But the mute children’s balloons start to glow and their leader – who Franklin realizes with a sick jolt is his little sister – approaches him and the hooded figure and says without speaking:_

He isn’t yours. 

_He isn’t yours._

_He isn’t yours._

_“Carrie,” he says. “Come home.”_

_The children dissolve._

He wakes up gasping in the Sand Wastes. He can’t feel his legs. Above him, the stars spin in slow, lazy circles. It takes him a moment to realize they’re actually doing that, the spinning isn’t just because he’s dizzy. He closes his eyes and whimpers. His ears are ringing. He wonders how long he’s been out for; if it’s still the night of the Scorpions’ victory, or if a day or more has passed. 

“Frankie?” says a voice. Franklin lifts his head up and opens his eyes narrowly. He sees Michael’s two heads crest a nearby dune, dimly illuminated by the lights that eternally pass over Night Vale. “Frankie? You out here?” 

“Mike! Michael!” Franklin coughs loudly. His throat hurts. 

Michael jerks at the noise, and then runs down the dune in Franklin’s direction, sliding on the sand. 

“I’m here,” rasps Franklin. He throws up a handful of sand so Michael can see him. 

Michael gropes blindly when he reaches Franklin, and his hands brush Franklin’s face. 

“Hey,” says Franklin, jerking back slightly. “A little lower, man. That’s my face.” 

Michael nods with both heads and brushes his hands gently down Franklin’s neck and along his shoulders, trying to get a sense of where Franklin is. He grips Franklin’s upper arms and hauls him up. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. Even his second head looks a little concerned. He doesn’t ask what happened or why Franklin’s out here. In Night Vale, it doesn’t really matter. 

“Y-yeah,” says Franklin, wobbly. He leans heavily against Michael. “I don’t think I can walk,” he says, after a moment. He thinks about Carrie, and feels a little sick. Then he forces himself to not think about her. 

Both Michael’s heads nod, and Michael lifts him up. It’s kind of embarrassing, but Franklin figures at least no one will be able to _see_ him. 

“How’d you know I was here?” he asks. He presses his nose into Michael’s shoulder; Michael smells comfortingly spicy, like the strings of dried red peppers Franklin’s mom used to hang in the kitchen window to ward off encyclopedia salesmen and doxies.

“You left,” says Michael. “And I went to look for you, and the angels told me to look for you here. They’re pretty chill, said they’d figure I’d be upset if anything happened to you. And that wouldn’t be good for the team.” 

“Huh,” says Franklin. “You noticed I left?” 

“Of course I did,” says Michael. “What kind of best friend would I be if I hadn’t?”

“Well, I’m kind of invisible.”

And they kind of hadn’t spoken all day.

“Like that matters,” scoffs Michael’s second head, and Michael nods his agreement.

“Oh.” And for the first time in a long while, Franklin starts to feel a little better.

“I found Carrie,” he adds, trying for flat, but it comes out shaky, almost hysterical. “That’s why I left. I was looking for her.”

Michael sucks in a breath. “Was she okay?” 

“No.” 

Michael’s arms tighten around Franklin in what’s probably meant to be a hug, but he doesn’t say anything. Franklin appreciates that. At least Carrie isn’t dead, even if she doesn’t seem to be among the living either. And she saved his life. He thinks.

He doesn’t know what to tell Mom. Maybe he won’t tell her anything. It’s not like anyone was really expecting Carrie to come back.

“How come the angels care so much about you anyway?” he asks, changing the subject. 

He doesn’t intend it in a mean way; he cares a lot about Michael, too. But angels haven’t known Michael since he was seven and drooling uncontrollably onto his crayons. At least Franklin doesn’t think they have. And they don’t seem to care about anyone else in this town. They didn’t care about Carrie. 

What with the angels and all, he believes in God now. He just doesn’t think God is all that nice.

“I don’t think the angels do care about me that much,” says Michael thoughtfully. “I think they just really hate Desert Bluffs.” 

“That’s because Desert Bluffs is _terrible_ ,” says Michael Sandero’s second head. 

And for once, Franklin has to agree with him.

End.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I haven't actually listened to Welcome to Night Vale beyond the, um, fourteenth or fifteenth episode I think? But I wanted more stories about the other characters in Night Vale and the weird shit they deal with. So I wrote most of this over the summer, promptly forgot about it, rediscovered it, and decided to finish it.
> 
> So here it is. I hope you enjoyed this weird little tale.


End file.
